“Yes, sir,” Sam said. “TJ, the one who’s infected, has begun to show some troubling signs of the infection.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bartholomew said. “But, unless you can get me some more specific information about just what strain she was infected with, I’ll have to do it the slow way.”
“OK, Doctor, just please find out as soon as you can.”
“I assure you, Matt, I’ll work on nothing else until we’ve solved the mystery. This is the most exciting thing in plasmid research I’ve ever come across, so I’ll pull out all the stops and get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Bartholomew,” Sam said, dejection evident in her tone.
“Is there no way to find out from the person responsible for the initial infection?” Bartholomew asked.
Matt looked at Sam across the room. “No, sir. I’m afraid he’s dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. It would speed up the process of growing some conjugation-blocking plasmids if we knew the DNA structure of the infecting organisms.”
“Well, if we come up with anything we’ll let you know immediately,” Matt said.
“Thanks, Matt. Keep in touch, and if any new symptoms arise, be sure and let me know.”
Sam slowly replaced the phone in its cradle and hung her head, clearly saddened by the news of how long it would take to get results that would help TJ.
Matt stood up and walked over to put his arms around Sam. “It can’t be helped, Sam,” he said gently. “I’m sure he’s working as fast as he can.”
She looked up at him. “I know, Matt, but TJ is changing. She’s turning into someone I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, sitting his hips on the desk next to her.
Sam looked around the room as she tried to find the right words to describe the changes taking place in her best friend. After a moment, she focused on Matt. “I don’t know quite how to describe it, Matt. It’s almost as if she’s a completely different person.”
“How so?”
“She seems locked off in her own world. She no longer seems interested in her patients or her residency, and she’s more . . . closed off. We used to confide in each other, but now it’s as if she’s so afraid of what’s been happening to her that she’s decided to go it alone. She won’t even talk about the changes and she no longer tells me about the dreams that plague her and keep her from sleeping.”
“You think the infection is growing, making her change into the type of creature that Niemann was, don’t you?”
Slowly, Sam nodded. “Yes, and I’m afraid if we don’t find some sort of cure soon, there won’t be any more of the original TJ left to save.”
Matt took her hand. “Then we’ll just have to work harder and faster and make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Sam was about to reply, when the door opened and Shooter walked in, accompanied by Chief Damon Clark. Clark looked much better than the last time Matt had seen him. He’d gained some weight and looked stronger since his surgery.
“Hey, Shooter, Chief,” Matt said.
Sam turned her head and discreetly wiped the tears from her eyes, then smiled at Shooter and Damon. “Hi, guys,” she said.
Matt, noticing the serious expressions on their faces, asked, “What’s up? You two look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
“We need to talk,” Shooter said.
Matt got up off the desk and moved to the small conference table in the corner of the room where he and Sam went over lab reports and research notes. He swept the papers on the table into a pile in one corner and motioned for everyone to take a seat.
Once they were seated around the table, Matt said, “Go ahead.”
Shooter opened a manila folder he was carrying and laid a sheet of paper out on the desk. “After our visit to Niemann’s warehouse the other day, I checked with Chief Clark and he said he wasn’t aware the ship was gone, so I called the Port Authority to see what had happened to it.”
“Had they moved it?” Sam asked, looking down at the paper and trying to read it upside down.
Shooter shook his head. “Nope. So I got to thinking and had the man there run a check on all the ships that’d sailed out of the port since our fight with Niemann.”
“What’d you find out?” Matt asked.
“There was no record of any ship by the name of Night Runner having left the port.”
“Maybe someone just took it and didn’t check in with the Port Authority,” Sam offered, playing devil’s advocate.
Shooter shook his head. “Not possible, at least not for a ship as big as Niemann’s.”
“Get to the point,” Damon said irritably.
“Anyway, I figured whoever took the ship might have changed its name, so I had them run a cross-check of any ships that left that didn’t have a record of having arrived.”
“Smart move,” Matt said.
“Tell them what you learned,” Damon said.
“Only one ship left that hadn’t arrived. It was named the Moon Chaser and it left two days after our shoot-out.”
“Where was it headed?” Sam asked.
“Officially, Naples, Florida,” Shooter said. “But I called the port there and they had no record of it ever getting there.”
“Maybe whoever it was just changed the name again before getting to Florida,” Matt said.
“I thought of that, but first I called all the ports that were marked on that map we found in Niemann’s warehouse to see if a ship named Moon Chaser had berthed.”
“And?” Matt asked.
Shooter smiled grimly. “I hit the jackpot. The Moon Chaser arrived in the port of New Orleans three days after it left Houston.”
“And who was listed as the owner?” Sam asked.
Shooter shook his head. “Some corporation registered in Nigeria. That turned out to be a dead end, so I called Chief Clark to see if we could get the New Orleans police to check it out for us.”
Both Matt and Sam turned their attention to Damon, who opened a leather briefcase he’d set on the floor next to him and pulled out a sheet of paper.
“Just before Shooter called me, I received a bulletin from ViCAP.”
“ViCAP?” Sam asked.
“The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program,” Damon explained. “It’s a computer network run by the FBI and shared with local law-enforcement agencies in which criminals are tracked across the country by means of their MOs, the type of crimes they commit.”
He handed the bulletin across the table for Matt and Sam to read.
After he scanned the report, Matt glanced up with fear in his eyes. “This can’t be.”
Damon nodded, his lips tight. “I know. The police chief in New Orleans is investigating multiple killings where the necks are slashed and all of the blood drained from the victims, just the type of killings Niemann was doing here before we stopped him.”
Sam pointed to the bottom of the bulletin. “He also had a query here about any history of assaults with swords and gasoline, just like the one we had where the man was beheaded and his body burned with gasoline. The one where the DNA tests showed the victim was over a hundred years old.”
“Exactly,” Damon said.
“What do you think this means, Damon?” Matt asked, though he was afraid he knew the answer.
“One of two things,” Damon replied. “First, and I have to admit most likely, is we have a copycat murderer. Either someone who was in Houston at the time of our killings and who read about them and is killing in the same manner as Niemann was, or it’s another creature like him who has the same MO.”
“What’s the second possibility?” Sam asked, her face pale.
“That Niemann somehow survived our assault, cleared out his belongings from his warehouse, sailed his ship to New Orleans, and picked up right where he left off in Houston.”
“But,” Matt protested, “that’s impossible, Damon. You saw how his body was riddled with m
achine-gun bullets. Hell, his head was almost severed from his body.”
Damon shook his head. “I know, Matt. And for the record, I don’t believe it, either. But the coincidence of all of Niemann’s belongings being removed, and his ship being taken to New Orleans, and the simultaneous beginning of killings similar in nature and method to those he performed, is just too great to ignore.”
“Besides, Matt,” Shooter said, “six months ago you would have said the presence of a Vampyre in Houston who sucked the blood out of his victims and seemed to be one hundred fifty or more years old would have been impossible.” He shook his head. “I hesitate to use the word ‘impossible’ in conjunction with anything concerning Niemann.”
Matt spread his hands, frustration written all over his face. “So what are we gonna do? Call the New Orleans police and tell them we think their killer. . . what do they call him, the Ripper, is a vampire that we let get away and now he’s busily biting necks in their city?” He laughed harshly. “Hell, they’d think we were nuts.”
Damon glanced at Shooter and said, “You tell them.”
Shooter stared at Matt and Sam. “I think we should go to New Orleans and track down the owner of the Moon Chaser.”
“What?” Sam asked, her mouth open in amazement.
“It’s the logical thing to do,” Shooter explained. “After all, we know what Niemann looks like, and more importantly, we believe in what he is. Something we’ll never be able to convince the New Orleans police about.”
“OK, I can see the rationale in you going, Shooter,” Matt said. “But why Sam and I?”
Damon interjected, “Because if our perp is Niemann, he’s likely to be using the same dodge he did here, working as a doctor somewhere. You and Sam, as docs, can get entry into those places better than a cop.”
“I don’t know,” Matt said, his heart beating rapidly at the very thought of again confronting the monster Roger Niemann.
Sam put her hand on his arm. “Matt, I think we should go. If it is Roger, we may be able to gain access to his research. It might save TJ’s life.”
Matt stood up and began to pace the room. “Jesus, guys, I just don’t know if I can face that again,” he said, remembering the terror he felt the night he’d climbed on Niemann’s ship and faced the monster head-on.
Shooter got up and walked over to stand in front of Matt. “You can do it, pal. We’ve got to do it. For TJ, if nothing else.”
Matt chuckled, shook his head, and turned to Damon. “If we go, Chief, I’m gonna want a really big gun!”
Seventeen
I waited until four in the morning to return to the French Quarter to pick up my car. When I got there, I found a business card under the windshield wiper. It belonged to William P. Boudreaux, Chief of Detectives of the New Orleans Police Department. I turned the card over and on the back was written: “Please call me at your earliest convenience.”
I checked to make sure I wasn’t illegally parked; I wasn’t. I stuck the card in my shirt pocket and got behind the wheel, wondering what Detective Boudreaux wanted with me. Had I been seen earlier when I got the gasoline out of the trunk, or had someone somehow connected me to the fight outside of Pat O’Brien’s?
No, if that were the case, the police would have been knocking on my door instead of leaving a note on my car.
As I drove the several blocks to my apartment, I considered my options. I could pack up and leave again, abandoning all the efforts I’d made to create a new life here, or I could brazen it out and go see what the policeman wanted.
I laughed to myself. Neither option particularly appealed to me, but at least seeing this Boudreaux would let me know where I stood.
I decided to go and see the man, but I was going to do it on my terms. I certainly wasn’t going to walk into his office where I’d be trapped if they were on to me. This was going to take some careful planning.
The next morning, I went to the police station and told the officer at the information desk I had an appointment with Detective Boudreaux. He told me his office was on the third floor, in the homicide division. I followed his directions and entered a large room; there were desks arranged in orderly rows throughout the area, and a glass-enclosed office at the far end of the space. I could see a large, broad-chested man in shirtsleeves and a tie behind the desk, working on some papers. He had sandy brown hair and a close-cropped beard. The nameplate on the door read BOUDREAUX.
Before anyone could ask me what I wanted, I turned and made my way back down the stairs to the first floor and then out the door.
Taking up station at a small restaurant across the street, I ordered a cup of coffee and sat by a window where I could see the door to the police station.
It was 12:30 and I was on my third cup of coffee when I saw Detective Boudreaux come outside. He was with two other men and they stood on the stairs talking for a few moments before going their separate ways.
I threw a couple of dollars on the table and walked over just as Boudreaux was opening the door to his car.
“Detective Boudreaux,” I said, forcing my face into a smile.
He turned and gave me a quizzical stare. “Yes?”
I stuck out my hand. “Hi, I’m Dr. Albert Nachtman. You left one of your cards on my windshield last night.”
He took my hand, nodding. “Yeah. You were parked near a crime scene and I have a few questions to ask you about what you saw last night.” He hesitated. “Uh, how did you find me?”
“I arrived at the information desk just as you were leaving. When I told the man there I was supposed to see you, he pointed you out to me.”
“Oh. Well, Doctor, I was just heading for lunch. . . .”
“Me too, Detective. I work at a clinic and rarely take lunch, but this was the only time I could get away. How about we eat together and you can ask me your questions?”
“Well, I—”
“Today is red-beans-and-rice day at the Court of Two Sisters,” I said, mentioning one of the more exclusive restaurants in the Quarter. “I’ll treat you since I’m imposing on your lunch break.”
He grinned. “That’s a deal. I don’t get to eat at the Court very often.”
“I’ll meet you there,” I said, and walked off toward where I’d left my car.
On the way, I breathed a sigh of relief. If the detective had any suspicions about me, he would never have agreed to meet with me away from his office. Still, I would have to be very careful. One didn’t get to be chief of homicide without being very smart.
We met at the entrance and I suggested since it was such a nice day that we eat outdoors in the courtyard. After we ordered, Boudreaux got right to the point.
“Dr. Nachtman, there was a disturbance last night down the street from Pat O’Brien’s. Two men got into a fight. Afterward, my men canvassed the area and found your car parked nearby.”
I nodded. “Yes. I drove there directly after work, Detective. My clinic was exceptionally busy yesterday and I felt the need to unwind before heading home. I spent the evening listening to some jazz at a blues club on Dauphine Street.”
“What time did you get there, Doctor?” he asked, taking a small notebook from his coat pocket and making some notes in it as we talked.
“Oh, about six or six-thirty, I think,” I answered.
“And when did you pick up your car?”
“Not until this morning.”
That got his attention. “Oh?”
I gave him a rueful grin. “Yes. I’m afraid I had several drinks in the club and I didn’t think I should drive in that condition, so I walked home.”
“You live in the Quarter?” he asked.
I nodded and gave him the address of my apartment.
“And, when you parked, did you see anything suspicious? Any unusual characters hanging around?”
I laughed, trying to keep it light. “In the Quarter?” I asked, smiling. “There are always strange people on the street, but I saw nothing that aroused my suspicions.” I waited a bea
t, and then asked, “What do you mean?”
He sat back as the waiter brought our food. Once he’d left, Boudreaux chuckled. “Oh, like a man carrying a sword and a can of gasoline.”
I shook my head. “Now, that I would have noticed,” I said humorously.
He put his notebook away and bent to his food. “Well, it was just a shot in the dark. No one else seems to have noticed him, either.”
As I ate, I asked casually, “I understand you’re head of homicide. Was there a killing last night?”
He shook his head. “No, but one of my men thought the fight might have something to do with the Ripper killings.”
I shuddered. “I hope you found some clues to the identity of that fiend.”
“Unfortunately, no,” he said, mopping up the last of his red beans and rice with a roll. “But we did get a good description of one of the men.”
“That’s good,” I said. “Perhaps you can catch him before he kills again.”
“We’re doing our best, Doctor,” Boudreaux said, standing up and reaching into his back pocket for his billfold.
I held up my hand. “No, sir. This is on me. It’s the least I can do for our men in blue.”
He grinned and stuck out his hand. “Well, thanks again, Doctor Nachtman. I’ll let you know if we have any more questions.”
I stood up and took his hand. “Anytime, Detective, anytime.”
After he left, I sat back down and ordered a cup of coffee and let my muscles relax. It was obvious he had no suspicions about my story. Evidently, the witnesses hadn’t gotten a good look at me or he would have asked more questions about my alibi. Hopefully, this was the last I’d see of Detective Boudreaux.
As I sat there in the courtyard, drinking my coffee, I began to plan how I might go about locating the Ripper. Now that he knew I was after him, it was going to be much harder to catch him unaware.
I went back over our conversation in my mind. I remembered he’d mentioned something about a Council. Perhaps it was time for me to approach the local group and seek their assistance in ridding New Orleans of this scourge. After all, from the way he talked, they had to be as concerned about the unwelcome attention he was getting as I was.
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